"The individual has always had to struggle to keep from being overwhelmed by the tribe. If you try it, you will be lonely often, and sometimes frightened. But no price is too high to pay for the privilege of owning yourself."
Nietzsche

Monday, July 9, 2007

In my body, a sleeping weapon waitsand no one can warm the gears to move and slideand open wide, after all these yearsI cannot possibly say I’m sorry enoughBut nothing is so serious in the candle flamesYou look at me and I know what you see:ivy on brownstones,your children in homemade sweaters,and tattered, antique rugs and things.And you claim to see right through me but you really seeevery movie that you’ve ever seen about beasts and beautiesand I’m much too dark and widefor you to see the other side.

Dear stranger, there is enough in the universe and in our strange, young livesbesides emotions and relationshipsAnd the same dull analysis of insecurities and prideit makes me quite uncomfortableto watch somebody lieIt’s not a necessary thingWhen we commune so nicelyover wine and weed and dreams.

In my mind, a sleeping womanIs listening for boot stepsOn the creaking stairsAnd waiting for a manWho has been away at war for yearsStruggling through some strange and awful placeThat is just as deep and wideAs the woman to whom he lied about his fearsAnd he will place around my neckthe simple string of beads he boughtat a market outside Bangkok.

Don’t kiss me, he will find you when he comesAnd remember your nameEven when I do not.

Hush, you say, the sea is washing inBut we live nowhere close to itCome, I invite you, try againI tell you all the rules and you sit just like a MasterBut you are falling far behind, my friend.

I cannot possibly say I’m sorry enoughFor the way I amI am not a womanBecause these strange desires can’t define me And I am a stranger to this body, but I am accepting of itsHospitality I’m resourceful, as wellas you can seeand I understand the equations of beauty and symmetry and my body’s primordial recipes.

You see, inside my soul, a strange, old man awakesHe sees your boyishness through his ageAnd you can never be as wise as himBecause he is me, and I am old and I am strong like himAnd when I die, this soft and envied girl will also diePoor foolish boy, you only touch a phantom lieAnd I cannot wait until I wake and I’ll be him again.